


Belle of the Ball

by aldonza



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Finger Sucking, Leroux-based, M/M, One Shot, Pharoga - Freeform, Smut, Some Humor, porn with very mild plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:01:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22446814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldonza/pseuds/aldonza
Summary: The Daroga confronts Red Death at the masquerade ball. Or more eloquently put: the Daroga fucks Erik in his Red Death costume.
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera/The Persian
Comments: 16
Kudos: 54





	Belle of the Ball

**Author's Note:**

> No, this is not canon compliant in any way whatsoever. But I wouldn't have written it if I cared ha! Just a little piece of spur-of-the-moment smut I wrote.

The Opera Ghost had suspected some fool would try to touch his cape. Some fool always did. He did not completely blame them because- if he did say so himself- his handiwork was amazing. He’d spent an inordinate amount of time on Red Death, perfectly arranging the fabric and those shades of red for his ensemble. He’d sewn the gold tresses himself and ordered a new pair of black boots- tipped silver- to go with it. Even the plumes in his great hat had been selected with care. And the mask- ah, the mask!- was molded to his face, hardened paper near indistinguishable from a human skull.

He was Red Death come to life, a plague in the shape of a man, death between each bone as he graced these mortals with his presence. All in all, Erik felt quite pleased by the gasps and gapes he inspired. He searched the Masquerade for Christine, but could not find her face among the masked crowd. Speaking of the crowd, their masks were pitiful, nothing but pieces of paper and ceramic that stretched over equally mundane faces. 

So it was only natural that they cleared a path for him when he descended those grand stairs, crimson cape trailing behind as it slid from the top step down. No matter. If Christine was among the crowd, she would not be able to turn away from Red Death, for he was glorious. The Living Corpse did not exist here. Nor was he a ghost. He was the magnificent Red Death and that silly vicomte could not even compare!

Erik soaked in the admiration- and the fear- from the guests around, basking deservingly in their attention. None dared approach, but all looked on. Behind that mask, thin lips smirked, so smug he could feel the air in his chest. 

He’d even embroidered the words on the back of his cape: “Don’t touch me! I am Red Death stalking abroad!”

Now no fool would dare ruin his moment. No fool that cared for his own well-being, that is. Evidently, some fool had a death wish.

Erik sensed the steps before he heard them. _Some lad thinks himself sneaky!_ he thought. A figure crept behind him and when fingers brushed his cape, Erik snatched a wrist, knuckles tight against glove as he clamped down.

But the crunch of bone never came.

The ingrate’s wrist slid away at the last second and fingers twisted back in time to catch Erik’s hand in their grip. Thumb digging into Red Death’s wrist, the man pulled- hard- and startled, Erik staggered forward for a good second. That was all the man needed.

His hand caught the Ghost’s wrist and Erik spun down. When he next blinked, he was in this man’s arms, hand locked in his crushing hold, the brim of his hat shielding them both from the crowd.

“You-” he hissed before seeing a familiar flash of green behind a chipped gold mask.

_Daroga!?_

“What do you have up your sleeve this time?” the Persian said, that mask covering everything but his lips.

“You shaved?” 

“Answer me!”

Erik scoffed, mask rattling. “Let go of me, you great booby. Everyone can see you make a fool of yourself.”

“Then let them.” The Persian leaned closer, breath hot against the ghost’s ear. “Was that not the point of this? You wanted them to see you, isn’t that right, Erik?”

“Let go. Or it’ll be a bad lookout for you.”

The daroga lifted a handful of red fabric, pushing the piece of cape against Erik’s side. “What did you plan to do tonight? I won’t allow you to harm those young lovers.”

“I’m warning you-”

“Though I have no idea how you plan to do anything in this get-up. Look at yourself, Erik. Did you think everything would go your way just because you dress like the belle of the ball?”

“Release Erik right now or-” And then Red Death stuttered, unsure if he’d heard right. “Wait. What did you call me? How dare you-”

Then the daroga did release him, stepping on the cape as he did so. Erik had been so busy arguing with the insufferable man he failed to notice just how many layers of fabric the Persian had wound around him. And thus, he tripped.

He would have hit the ground if not for the daroga’s hand around his arm. The Persian snatched him backwards and began, most irritably, to drag him away from the crowd as the onlookers whispered and pointed. Erik had half a mind to threaten them all, but that busybody had ruined his moment and he saw no point in furthering his own humiliation. 

“I’ll kill you, daroga,” he growled, “mark me.”

“I know.”

They escaped through one of Opera’s many trap doors and Erik made a mental note to lock this one in particular so that pesky Persian would be unable to use it. Once underground- or perhaps inside a wall- Erik reached for the daroga’s throat, barely missing when the man bent down to light a lamp. That Erik himself had left here.

“Promise me you’ll leave the poor lovers alone,” the daroga said, removing his mask against the lamp’s glow.

“Erik will do no such thing! Christine loves him and they shall marry!”

“Is Erik so sure?”

“Yes!” he cried.

The Persian paced around him, as if mulling over some silly notions. “Do you know what marriage entails, Erik?”

“Of course I do. I’m not daft.” The opera ghost crossed his arms. “She’d love me for myself. And on Sundays, we’ll go for strolls in the park- in broad daylight- and we shall take our meals together in bliss. We would sleep comfortably in a perfectly normal bed-”

He amended himself, frowning. “Unless the sight of Erik’s hideousness is too much for her to bear. Then Christine can have the bed all to herself and Erik will sleep at her feet like a dog, or outside the door if it pleases her.”

Erik uncrossed those limbs, and pulling at his hat, added brashly, “We would please each other! As a wife and husband should!”

The daroga had circled behind him. Erik waited for him to respond, if only so he could shoot those stupid words down. But the Persian said nothing. 

“Daroga?”

Teeth sunk into his ear. Erik gasped, eyes darting to where the daroga stood- far too close to him. 

Removing his mouth, the Persian muttered, “Please each other, you say? I could please you right now, as I almost. did so many times in Mazandaran.”

Erik felt heat against his cheeks, normally so cold. “How could you possibly please me, you boring old thing? And if you’re only doing it so Christine will marry that young man instead, I want no part-”

“I’m not doing it for Christine or the vicomte. They don’t need either of us in their lives.”

He took hold of Erik’s wrist again and lifted that hand, bones jutting against fit gloves. 

“Then who, daroga?”

“I would do it for myself.”

The Persian balanced one of Erik’s fingers against his teeth, biting down on the edge of a black glove. Slowly, the glove slipped off, trapped between the daroga’s lips. His mouth parted and the glove fell. The daroga looked upon that skeletal hand, spidery and long, bone white in the dark. Still stupefied, Erik swore he saw the Persian smile before-

The opera ghost groaned, beside himself with a sensation he could not quite call pleasure or pain. The daroga placed his finger in his mouth, tongue flicking over that bony digit. He released that finger and did the same to the other four, taking time to suck along the bone of each. 

“D- daroga, what are you doing?” he asked lowly, suddenly quite hot in the heavy costume (for it was heavy).

“Tell me, Erik, did you plan to please her in this way?”

“Daroga-”

The Persian removed the great hat, tossing it away as if it was nothing at all. He pried open Red Death’s collar and soon Erik found his back pressed against a wall, the sounds of the masquerade a hollow away.

“Do you wish me to stop, Erik?” he said with utter seriousness.

The saliva was still wet on his hand. Erik slipped on his tangle of a cape and when his bottom slapped the floor, he knew the answer. He shook his head, the death’s mask still rattling.

“No, daroga, no.”

The Persian undid Red Death’s belt, and quite clumsily pulled the red fabric up. “You’re wearing tights. That will make it difficult for me.”

Evidently, that did not stop the daroga. Erik heard himself moan, a low whimpering sound when the Persian gripped his _heat_. For a moment, he forgot all about Christine and her young man and the masquerade ball. He only knew the feeling of the daroga’s hands.

The man let go, and a hand pressed to Erik’s shoulder, leaned in to kiss his Adam’s apple. Erik gulped, shivering as the Persian’s head disappeared down his unbuttoned shirt, a mop of black hair between red and white. The daroga’s mouth trailed his collarbone, bumping over scars as it kissed ribs and skin. He licked that sunken stomach down to the naval, no doubt savoring each tight moan above. 

When he almost reached Erik’s length, the daroga stopped. He returned to the surface, nibbling his way up, those little stings leaving the ghost quivering for more. 

“Daroga, what do you want with me now?”

The Persian gripped his ankle, unbuckling the boot. He did the same to both feet and began tugging at the wretched tights. “I want you to say my name.”

Erik huffed. “And if I don’t?”

“You will.” Then, husky, he told what remained of Red Death, “Turn around.”

The tights fell, crumpled by the red hat. And almost as soon as he heard the sound of trousers dropping, Erik felt the daroga enter, slick and hot.

“You!” he gasped, “did you lather yourself? When!?”

“I came prepared should tonight end like this.”

 _You great booby! This was how you planned to ruin Erik’s night!_ But all that came out of the ghost’s mouth was a grunt, then groan, and finally a loud cry. The daroga bobbed, humping whilst he thrust in and _in_. Erik felt the plunge and he could all but taste the semen and bits of blood, those fluids leaking and sinking from behind. He gripped the walls, then floor, one hand gloved and one hand bare.

Arms gripped Erik hard, clinging to ribs as the Persian pushed against his back, face buried in the nape of his neck. Erik heard the daroga’s muffled groans, but they were overshadowed by his own shameless cries. And he- thrust- and Erik felt- and he thrust- and Erik felt- again- and again- and yet again, until the hardened shaft was the only thing Erik knew.

“Did you plan to scream like this in your wedding bed?” the daroga asked between harsh breaths.

Sweat burst along with blossoms of pain, the pleasure blinding as Erik squeezed his eyes shut. Tears gathered and slid, forced out from the fire within, and Erik found that he did not care. He only cared for the Persian’s touch. The daroga roamed hands and nails over him, twisting them both along the tangled cape as his hips moved above. When he climaxed, Erik may have let a high note loose. 

And he did shout a name, its syllables slurring as he screamed.

Then the daroga rolled away, one hand still clutching Erik’s arm. The cape was soaked in sweat and clear semen, their wetness staining the words “Do not touch” in shameless pools. Erik breathed- in and out- and unable to resist the need for air, yanked his mask off.

“You bastard,” Erik said, gasping as his hands groped the embroidered words, “you ruined my cape!”

The Persian flipped on his side, and cupping Erik’s face, said, out of breath, “Did I please you?”

Erik looked into his wretchedly handsome eyes, the daroga’s graying hair matted with sweat. “Did you not hear me? You ruined Red Death- you- you-”

The Persian kissed him, gentle on the lips. “You pleased me, Erik.”

“I did nothing, daroga!” he snapped, “I did nothing, just sat there like a fool while you did anything you wanted-”

“You pleased me because you left those young people alone. I thought I’d have to kill you tonight, you know, or let you kill me.”

Erik scowled. And perhaps oblivious to his murderous intent, that foolish man kissed him again. He could not even enjoy those kisses because he could only think of his aching bottom and the limp he’d no doubt sport.

“Damn you,” he hissed, “instead-”

“Instead, you said my name.”

And he kissed him again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and feel free to leave kudos/comments if you enjoyed it!


End file.
